Bartender
by SomeOddThings
Summary: He was washed up and hung out to dry, he never thought he would get a second chance at life.
1. Awakening

The springs squeaked from under Marc Islands bed as he uncomfortably shifted from one side to another trying to sit himself up and get a visual of his bland digital clock. '5:40' it beamed at him flashing red upon his sensitive eyes. Hesitantly he stood up and started to make his way to the little bathroom not 10 steps from his bed. The little top floor apartment he rented was more than enough to please him.

Clumsily he flipped the switch and turned on the fluorescent light revealing a very average bathroom. The tiled floors and walls were all too common to see in the little London accommodations. Directly looking back at him through the mirror was a man who was reserved and simple and maybe bored of life some might have said. The medium body-build showed that he kept in shape but not as much as he would have liked to. The bristly stubble and short but unkempt hair showed youth and freedom but he didn't feel it. It was all a facade.

After staring for a few minutes he sighed, opened the bottle and placed the green and white pill and washed it down with cold water which felt reinvigorating to him. Shortly he proceeded to clean himself up opening the window to let the steam dissipate. Drying himself Marc sought after the pristine pressed clothes. He pulled out a drab white shirt with a blue pair of suit trousers and a dingy old tie to match. His eyes met the red glare of his clock. '6.00' it read. Peering out the large window in the bedroom, the street below was lit up by the lights emanating from various establishments lining the streets purely due to the moon hoisting itself into the sky. He had surmised that he had 15 minutes to get to his destination. After procuring his grey bomber jacket and closing his apartment he made his way down the steps to the wet and cold streets of good ol' London.


	2. Two collide

Marc walked with a slight limp in his left leg. A reminder of his past. He thoughtfully and carefully avoided the puddles that dwelled on the street as he made his way through the swollen city to his destination. The puddles of water reflected the kaleidoscope of neon lights located on the shops enticing and daring people to enter them. He enjoyed it and there weren't many things he enjoyed anymore. The feeling of the rain against his skin and the cold air reinvigorating his pores as he traversed the city. On the sides of the road stood young people holding signs luring bystanders with their chants and slang. Marc just kept walking and soon enough he had reached his target.

The old sign had hung in its lopsided position for the four years that Marc had served there and had been said to hang so awkwardly for even longer, so long that it had become a staple for the little pub. He pushed the main doors open allowing the heat to escape the establishment. The smell of the oak, the sound of the crowd and the view of the bar was all Marc knew and it was what he loved. Proceeding past the stage on which multiple women and men had performed upon he made his way to the back room. Here he hung his aged jacked and prepared himself for the shift. Looking in the mirror he said to himself, "just like every other time, look good, serve appropriately and just relax, be friendly."

Marc opened the door and approached the counter. Placing his tools used to impress and serve, he was ready. As the night went on, he entertained and served his audience to a pedigree to which most bartenders could not reach. The crowd were amazed by the skill he displayed. Shaking and mixing the drinks preforming the most delicate manoeuvres and making the most exquisite alcoholic potions. All served with a smile and a usually small laugh. But it's what he knew. Occasionally, Marc would listen to the jazz played in the background of the pub but tonight, things had been different. It was her, standing there looking all beautiful. It reminded him of someone. Someone who once meant something to him. Why he took the pills. She approached the bar and ordered a 'Scotch on the Rocks'. Marc thought to himself, "Why would a pretty thing like you order a drink like this? Surely something this strong must be for a special occasion."

He pulled the whisky stoned out the fridge and placed them into the small whisky glass. He pulled out an old bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and poured. She looked at him with bright hazel eyes in a way which he hadn't been appreciated before. He felt different. She spoke first with a gentle tone, "Thanks love, really needed this. Oh by the way, the names Lena." He thought for a minute remembering every syllable she spoke. It was so soft and careful as if she had picked her word choice with the upmost care. After pondering he reciprocated, "No problem Lena, the name is Marc, Marc Islands." She smiled at the name. A song lyric came into his mind. 'Look for the girl with the broken smile.'


	3. Memories

The rain outside had picked up. The glass panes were covered in water. Customers sat by the windows conversing and mingling over their drinks whilst the rain fell down the glass windows and into the gutter being taken wherever.

Marc was drawn to Lena. Everything she did. From her little smile to her adorable giggle he was transfixed. He was serving the other people but always came back to her. He felt new, fresh and different. In a good way. A way he hadn't felt for years. It reminded him of his early years.

She made Marc feel so great. It was absolute joy for him to comeback after working hard in the factory to see her with a smile on her face or to pick her up and go on a little drive into town to shop around or go watch a film. It all changed when he signed up. He sat in the front seat of a car, the first drops hit his window pane and the emotion started flooding in. He had told her what he wanted to do, how he wanted to move away and enlist. Take a job and serve. But the thing holding him back was her. His partner. She had said how he shouldn't think of such stupid things. He had already signed up and was deploying in a weeks time. Marc hoped she would understand like she did so many times. As he did for her. It was not to be, the last thing Marc saw of her was her figure walking out of his life. A tour later and he had returned from Afghanistan. Injured no doubt. Whilst patrolling, an IED had detonated sending shrapnel directly into Marc's kneecap tearing the meniscus and tendon and fracturing the patella. He recovered but with a permanent limp. With nobody to turn to and no work to be found in his home town, he turned to London.


End file.
